


all the redemption i can offer, girl, is beneath this dirty hood

by pants2match



Category: Lost
Genre: DHARMA Initiative, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21804544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pants2match/pseuds/pants2match
Summary: If she's not a doctor anymore, then what is she? Just a pawn with a stun gun.unfinished leftbehinders fic
Relationships: Juliet Burke/James "Sawyer" Ford
Comments: 8
Kudos: 7





	1. (0: afternoon) burial

**Author's Note:**

> was originally planning on totally rewriting/finishing/giving this an actual plot this but [excuse that isn't "i'm bad @ writing things"], so here's the thing that's been using all my personal ram for the last year and a half. it's not even a story just........ leftbehinders/suliet shit i thought abt too much. there were spreadsheets.

( _here, let me show you before you get hurt,_

he'd chuckled at her constant tinkering, fiddling with the unloaded weapons, trying to get a feel for the mechanics of it all. she tests the laxity of the lever, a few millimetres either way before it catches on the opening mechanism.

_there's a trick, or else you'll get your hand sliced up and you'll be stuck with me to fix it._

he comes up behind her and, for the sake of the demonstration, slips his arm around her waist, replacing her hands on the M1. a few quick movements around the chamber and the empty cartridge pops right out into his other hand.

she laughs, surprised, maybe from the fluttering in her stomach as well. she's a quick study but it'd been over before she even knew it started, his fingers had moved with a practiced ease she'd been too focussed on to take in what they were doing. maybe that didn't have to be a bad thing.

_you'll have to show me again._

and he does.)

* * *

“ _Now_ you can dig."

Using the rifle stocks to break ground on the graves wasn't that bad an idea, but doing so while they were loaded? Miles was half a second away from a disaster and James wasn't too far behind. They're to the north of the clearing, just far enough in from the tree line that the ground is still soft and loamy; but sheltered, both from the thick canopy and the ample ground cover.

Juliet patrols, watching the clearing as her mind spins. What do any of them know about boats? It makes sense, as a cover, makes a world's more sense than whatever the hell got them here—they don't even know what decade they're in. She looks back at the small group, at Jin and the body and the woman—late sixties, early seventies, if she had to guess, because she does.

And the body is dressed in a DHARMA jumpsuit and by their current bearing they're headed straight for the barracks, back to those idyllic, little yellow houses. They really aren’t that far out, maybe ten minutes drive from the fence line. How many more chances will any of them have to speak in relative privacy?

As kids, Rachel called her a crybaby. Her husband always said she was too sensitive. She’s spent so long tamping down any display of emotion that triggering it doesn’t take much at all. A deep breath let out with a shudder, again, and again, and she feels her heart tick up—

The woman looks up at Juliet, brought out of her own haze without the repetitive thud of the other woman's footsteps.

"James."

Her voice cracks and it feels like a victory. He drops the rifle, covers the ground between them faster than she had anticipated. Eyes wide, he tugs the rifle off her shoulder, leads her by the elbow just out of sight of the woman, the others.

“I’m fine,” she whispers, trying to convince herself just as much as she is him, “we’re not far from the barracks, and I need you to—“

He searches her, and she searches for the words, because she's fighting with what she's about to ask, shucking herself of an identity she'd clung to for her own sanity. If she's not a doctor anymore, then what is she? Just a pawn with a stun gun.

"I'm not a doctor," she says, stating it as fact, "I understand it works to our advantage, make us valuable, but not here. Not again."

"Okay."

She'd expected a fight, an impassioned plea because it's be the only part of their collective story that’s true. Maybe before he'd jumped out of that chopper, he might have tried to convince her, but now it's okay.

"Whatever you come up with is fine—"

"I'll make it work, promise."


	2. (0: night) housewarming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just after the dock

To Juliet, two weeks is a difference of life and death. At twenty-two weeks, only ten-percent of babies will survive outside their mother’s womb. At twenty-four weeks that increases to around sixty-percent. At twenty-six weeks, it’s ninety-percent.

Juliet was born at twenty-six weeks with a pinprick of a ventricular septal defect, literally born with a hole in her heart. It healed on it’s own, like many do, but from the moment her mother divulged that information she was hooked. Little Juliet, to her parent’s dismay, wanted to know how babies were made—how they grew. Were they tiny babies and then big babies? What did I look like in your tummy? Her mom eventually finds the baby albums her mother had made, with the ultrasound scans tucked in ornate corners. “I think this is your head here,” she turns through the next couple of pages, showing her growing belly, larger and larger until a spread of pink faces against white walls and sheets, a hand around her father’s forefinger, “and this is you in your little incubator, it kept you warm because you came out early,” it’s a picture of Little Rachel sitting on their mom’s hospital bed, her hand stuck through the hole in the incubator, poking Little Juliet’s elbow.

(When Little Juliet was twelve she got her first period. They’d all had the talk already, so when the time comes her mom gives her the new sticky pads and fills up a hot water bottle. Within the year she goes to the library, because if her mom doesn’t know how to make it stop hurting maybe a book will.)

What if she didn’t get off the island soon enough? Sun. She can’t seem to shake the thought. The worst case and most likely scenario being no, she didn’t attaches itself to her, leaden and inescapable. If she stepped off the pier and into the water, would it drown her? Say Locke comes back, saves them again, how much time does she have before what Juliet knows to be the inevitable? What if she’s already—

The touch to her shoulder makes her recoil, reach to her back to find empty space.

“Hey, ’s just me.” And it is, just James, crouched beside her, looking like he’s about to keel over. She has no idea how long they’ve been sitting here. He’d said two weeks and she went down the rabbit hole of exactly how long two weeks is, how much can go wrong, how much can change.

“Larry Wilcox’s been callin’ us, they got a house ready.” He stands up in front of her, hands out. She takes them, catching a glimpse of her own hands in his as he hauls her up.

“Was—” she feels the bile rise in her throat, but takes a steadying breath, “wasn’t that the actor?”

“You know me.” He smiles softly and they start down the pier. “Never been too good at separatin’ the person and the role.” She wonders now, who exactly Jim LaFLeur is going to be.

The khaki jumpsuit offers to call them a ride, but they both decline.

* * *

“So, who am I anyway?”

“We’re married, n’ your name’s Tennille—”

“James.” She’s smiling again, pushes him towards the edge of the path as they make their way up the hill.

“You’re whoever ya want to be.”

“I was married, before I came here,”

“A’right, what about work?”

“N—” she shakes her head “—I was married before I came here, real life.”

“Huh,” she can see his brow furrowed in the dim path light.

“What? Is it that unbelievable?”

“Nah, just tryin’ to figure out if he was an asshole or—”

“He was an asshole,” she offers, “I don’t know if—do I want to have made the same bad choices?”

“Bad choices end up bein’ good stories. Bad relationships make ya sympathetic.”

* * *

"I don’t remember seeing LaFleur in your dossier.”

“‘Cause it ain’t.” he smiles something stupid, doesn’t exactly know why. Getting one over her, maybe.

She looks at him, almost expectant.

“Had to tell him somethin’. was thinkin’ about what all’a this looked like back…” _before_ … “house me ’n Hugo shacked up in looked like a damn Georgia O’Keeffe gallery—“ he sees her understand, a small smile at his quick thinking, “—sounded good. better than anything i came up with before.”

* * *

It's not long before they make it back to Dharmaville. The beige jumpsuits are still wandering around, M16s locked and loaded in case of another fence breach. Or, Juliet guesses, an attack from within.

“Over there,” James tilts his head, “lights off, with the planters,”

“That one?” Because of course. He hums an affirmative, “that was my house, James,”

He's disbelieving for half a second before coming to the same realisation she had, the intertwining fates of the island, the six degrees of Oceanic 815 of it all.

“Ah, shit,” he pushes his hair back, looking guilty.

“You had sex in my bed, didn't you,”

They come up on the little patio set they've claimed for the moment. He whispers, just out of earshot of the others, “you prefer we’d done it on the couch?”

“Jim, Juliet,” Horace approaches the group just as James and Juliet do, “good,” Miles, Jin, and Dan stand and they head off towards their accomodations, “I'll give you the nickel tour tomorrow, but you're right across from the cafeteria and the infirmary is in that cluster over there,”

A blue Jeep pulls up behind them, dropping off it's passenger.

“Nice timing,” Horace pats the man on the back, “this is Walter, member of our security team. He’ll be posted here tonight in case you need anything,”

Walter extends his hand, “thank you, for doin’ what you did for Amy, and–and for Paul. He would’a wanted to keep the peace,” James shakes it solemnly.

Horace leads them up to the house and over the threshold. It's much more spacious than James/Juliet’s house, more than Ben/Kate and Claire's. There's a living space with a bookshelf and record player, a kitchenette with a coffee maker and hot plate, and a small nook in the window outfitted as a workspace.

“It’s a transitional unit, people from the mainland; dentists, specialised construction; working here for short periods. Five beds, one and a half bath. You're free to anything in the kitchen,” he turns to Walter who steps outside and speaks into his walkie, “someone should be around soon with some scrubs, toothbrushes,”

“Say, boss, what time d’ya think we should be headin’ off in the mornin’? ‘Cause we all need a good night’s sleep but–”

“Tell you what, I’ll be at the cafeteria at quarter-to-seven and we can talk about your game plan over a hot meal,”

With that, Horace leaves the crew to their own devices. For a moment, they’re left standing awkwardly around the living area before Miles breaks the silence, “who want’s a drink?”

No one pays him much attention, but he pulls the bottles out anyway and starts eyeballing out shots in a glass tumbler. Jin finds the front bathroom and begins scrubbing the dirt and grime and blood out from under his fingernails, Juliet looks in on him after settling Dan down in the single room, “you okay?”

“Y-yes. Uh, clothes, shower?”

“Soon. Someone is bringing some, they shouldn’t be too long. I’ll tell the others you’re going first,” he thanks her, and begins examining his sun-blistered face. Juliet sidles up next to him and searches the cabinets, after a minute she finds the little cobalt blue jar, “here, and make sure you have a cool shower,” he nods with a small smile.

James sits in front of the shelves holding the turntable, sipping at the screwdriver Miles pushed on him after he refused a shot. He pulls out a few albums, Sticky Fingers, Cosmo’s Factory, Pretzel Logic.

“Are we having a party?” Juliet asks as she eyes the drinks and albums, James shrugs and Miles tilts a clean water glass her way, she fights a smile and loses, “sure, why dot?”

James replaces all but one of the albums he’d pulled out and hops up from his place on the floor. He fiddles with the knobs on the turntable for a moment, then discards the sleeve on the coffee table. Juliet and Miles move over with their drinks and Juliet snaps up the sleeve.

_Greetings, From Asbury Park, N.J._

The needle drops, the guitar starts singing; her parents, drunk, happy, turning the stereo up too loud on a Friday night; the 8-track in her sister’s brand-spanking new-used car, muddling along with the lyrics on their first ride out alone;

James is talking, whispering, just under the music.

“James,”

“Yeah?”

“There’s no surveillance in the residences, no cameras, no bugs,” he looks at her, skeptical, “check the lamps, 99, we’re alone,”

James huffs a bit and stands, then points Miles over to the workspace. As James lifts the shade off the floor lamp there’s a knock at the door, Juliet parts the curtains to see “Alice”, standing on the porch with two DHARMA-emblazoned duffel bags. Juliet lets the curtain fall closed and shoots James and Miles a look. Let me.

“Hi there, I’m Alice,” Juliet moves aside to let her in, introducing the others, “I’m a nurse at our infirmary. I’ve got some supplies for you all,” she sets the bags on the coffee table, “tooth brushes, towels, bathroom stuff,” she unzips the other bag, “and scrubs in this one for tonight, let me check,” she counts out five sets and places them next to the bag, “all there,” she smiles cheerily, “there’s also clean underwear and socks. Horace said he would try and organise some real clothes, but if he can there’s always spare jumpsuits around,”

“Thank you, Alice, for coming over so late for us,”

“No problem. You all stay safe out there tomorrow, wouldn’t want to see you again so soon,” she winks as she leaves. Juliet smiles sweetly at Walter before shutting the door.

“Jin,” Juliet nods to their new supplies, “you’re first,”

She rifles through the toiletries bag and finds a small package of hair ties, pins, and clips, with a brush packed in next to it. She takes her haul and sets herself up at the end of the couch, laying the pins and clips out on the coffee table before her, like a surgeons scalpels and forceps, “you guys sort out who’s showering next, I’m going to be a while here,” she says, wrestling her ponytail from it’s small elastic.

James sits across from her, sipping his screwdriver, as Dan heads back to his room and Miles goes through the bag, emptying it one item at a time. He stops on a small box, a rattle coming from it when he picks it up.

“What the shit is a sanitary belt?” He goes to open the box before James stops him.

“Y’a’int never read Judy Blume?” Juliet smiles at his indignation as she runs the brush through first front section of hair smoothly, “here,” he tosses the box over to Juliet. Miles lets out a small oh, before continuing with his rummaging.

Juliet chuckles softly, placing the box next to the bags, “thanks, but I’m all set,” through 197…6?

“Ya gotta be pretty happy about that, huh?”

She shake her head, “we are not having this conversation,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup borderline-preemie vsd crowd ✌️


	3. (1: pre-dawn) immersion

It’s the door. He has a vague recollection of Juliet opening the windows just as he drifted off, and now the breeze is making the thing rattle and bang right through his skull. He pulls the pillow around his head a minute before giving up and bracing himself for morning.

Except it’s not, not for a while yet. The light sneaking under the door is just enough to make out the time on the flip clock. 03:02. He’s barely slept an hour, and spent that time tossing and sweating through the sheets. James rolls over and, shit, when did he start having to take on everyone’s emotional baggage? Her bed looks like she’d never even touched it, the only sign of her the water ring on the bedside table. So James gets up. A little less than reluctantly. He gets up and pulls the white scrub pants back on and exits the (their) bedroom without even stubbing a toe.

She’s curled up in the same spot as a couple of hours ago, turning the pages of a magazine without much care for the content. It’s the light from the kitchen he could see, it’s so soft in the lounge area he doubts she’s done much reading.

“Y’ get much sleep?”

“Jesus,” she startles, sniffs, “no,” again, “no, um. You?”

“N’hour. Feelin’ worse than I did when I went down,” he sits down in, well, his spot and gets a better look at the magazine. Playboy, December 1972; Enjoy Our Cola Christmas Issue. “Anything good?” Mhmm. She turns on the too-bright lamp and flips through the magazine towards the back.

It’s an ad for The Styling Dryer by Schick, “and look, the hairspray won’t make it go all stiff,”

“Well, isn’t that somethin’?”

Juliet smiles, but her eyes don’t shine like, like usual; in fact, they’re red-rimmed and irritated. “I can see why my sister stuck to shoplifting Hustlers, even the article about the orgy was boring,”

“Yeah, no one ever read it for the articles,” he flicks through the rest of the magazine. Women, suits, dirty cartoons. Ads for alcohol and cigarettes and stereo systems, “this might actually help us out,”

“Of course it can,” he can hear her roll her eyes. She watches him, amused, almost, as he skims and dog-ears a few pages of the magazines. It’s not much but it’s something. He’s just over six years old, everything he remembers of the seventies has been warped by time.

“How old are you? Right now?”

“Five,” she pauses, thinking, “and a half,”

“n’ how much d’you remember about the seventies?”

Not much, at least contemporaneously. Bundy; that summer of ’78 and not being allowed out by themselves after four o’clock, Rachel getting thoroughly grounded after sneaking out across the street. Watergate, surely, but she can’t be certain if it’s happening right now.

“Not enough. Not enough to keep up out of hot water,” she looks to the small stack of magazines she’d assembled, then back to James, “we need to do our homework,”

“D’know how much help Gallery’s gonna be,”

“I’m sure someone can spare a copy of Readers’ Digest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rachel carlson is a lesbian you guys i'm sorry i don't make the rules


	4. (2: pre-dawn) distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (this is the morning after a slow first day out, jin and juliet make a phonetic dictionary inspired by the one sun gave jin)

She’s gone. He could tell before he even turned over to see her bed empty. Her shoes are still here though, tucked under her cot; a good sign.

There’s a flutter of paper as he opens the door.

JA∙MES

| 

JU∙LI∙E T  
  
---|---  
  
ㅉㅐ∙ㅁㅆ

| 

ㅉㅜ∙ㄹㅣ∙ㅔㅌ  
  
is written out on a torn piece of notebook paper and taped to the door. There are matching “Jin, Miles”, “Daniel”, and “Bathroom” notes on the other doors. He can hear her whispering from the living space.

“Mm-aa, g-uh, s-ee-n,” she whispers around the pen cap. She writes carefully in the notepad in her lap, then looks at the the torn-out page sat on the back of the couch. “Damn it, where’s the n?”

“Seriously?” She finishes drawing out the character and looks up. She’s already brushed her hair and washed her face, she looks great but for the irritated redness of her eyes, “how long you been awake for?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Jules—”

“Don’t call me Jules.” There’s a flash of something across her face but it’s not worth pushing right now. “Don’t,”

“Blondie.” He sits on the chair across from her. “Ya gotta sleep some time,”

She nods a little, and and begins tidying up her work, her hands shaking as she straightens out the notebook, pen, scissors and tape dispenser. “If I stop thinking, if I stop doing something—” he notes the tremor in her foot—“I will have a panic attack, and I would rather not do that,”

“Drink help?”

She shakes her head. “Couple hours ago, maybe, but I was busy.”

“I noticed.” There are make-shift sticky notes on most objects in the room: picture, ㅍㅣㄱㅈㅔㄹ; hot plate, ㅎㅏㄷ ㄷ(ㄹ)ㅐㄷ; table, ㄷㅐㅃ(ㅂ)(ㄹ). He smooths down the tape on “table”.

“There aren’t f sounds so we’ll have to figure something out—” the tremor misses its beat as she talks—“the p is shaped like a-a glass of water so I could fill it in maybe.” She shrugs a little, her body losing some tension. “It’s kind of fun, like a cipher,”

“You still got a couple’a Cracker Jack decoder rings packed away somewhere, don’t ya.”

“I definitely do.” A smile, growing. “My sister did this once—” she gestures around—“studying for a French test, thought it might be worth a try.”

“Nah, ’s a good idea.”

She leans forward, opening the notebook back up. After a few moments of careful writing and consulting the cheat sheet she slides them over to him.

ㄲㅜㄸ ㅁㅗㄹㄴㅇ

It takes him a minute. Juliet watches as he traces the pen down the list of sounds until he finds the character he’s looking for.

“Good _mowrning_?”

“It’s not a perfect system.”

“How’re ya doin’ the different—” he traces up and down the columns denoting differences in sound according to the character’s placement.

“Parentheses, for now. Three of these would make up a syllable, normally, so I thought maybe a dot,” he slides the notebook and pen back, she redraws good as a syllable, then drawn out three dots in the same configuration, ∵, before sliding half-way it back, “in position one, the start of the word” she draws a dot above the original ㄲ on the left, “two, start of the syllable” another dot on the right, “and three, end of the word?” And the last just below.

He takes the pen and notebook again. She watches him as he concentrates. A few seconds thought, a scribble, repeat, until he’s done.

“Crack that Nancy Drew,”

Pig pen. “Seriously?” He smiles cheerily, dimples and all.

COME BACK TO BED

She huffs a little, we went over this.

“Don’t gotta sleep, just lay down a bit. Keep goin’ with ya translatin’, just do it restin’.”

“Fine. We’re still out of here by six-thirty,”

“‘Course,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo i know 0 korean but, ywk, neither does juliet


	5. (4) ruse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idr if it's canon that miles meets/sees him mum on the third day but it is here

When Juliet wakes, it’s to rain spitting on her through the open window.

It’s late, but they’re not going to be leaving the barracks until the storm lets up, and in her experience, that could be a few days. She can smell something, eggs, cooking on the hot plate, and wonders how long it will be before they lose power.

Jin greets her from the kitchenette, watching over his omelette.

There’s a carton of produce, snacks, even a couple of six-packs, sitting on the counter, “what’s all this?”

Miles looks up from his dated magazine, “Horace brought it over,”

“Horace was here?”

“Yeah, maybe an hour ago, said we’re grounded ’til the storm’s over,”

Juliet looks through the carton before plucking out an apple, “and where’s James?”

“Went with Horace,” she sets the apple back down and looks at Miles in exasperation, “what? He was talking about a couple windows getting smashed, Jim went with him to help out,”

She leans back on one of the barstools at the counter, pushing her hair out of her face and taking a breath, “did Horace ask for help?”

“Man, I don’t know, I came out here, maybe I was a little hungover,”

“Miles, was he—did it seem like Horace was trying to get James out of the house?”

Jin looks up from his omelette, concerned, “Juliet?”

* * *

“Fuck! Jesus-shit!”

“Y’right there, Jim?” Horace calls from inside the house.

“Yeah, jus’,” he holds his hair back with his injured had, the ends getting whipped around in the wind, “clipped myself with the damn hammer, can’t see shit,” maybe it’s time to swipe a couple’a Juliet’s hair ties.

“I’m almost done with the glass, I’ll fetch you some ice,”

He pounds the nail into the plywood, “that was the last one, boss,”

Horace has him take a break, ice his thumb while he finishes cleaning up the glass. Leonard’s wife (Milly, Mitsy?) pours him tea, smiles at him, actually thanks him; it feels good.

* * *

Juliet tosses a towel onto his bed, and sits herself cross-legged on her own, unclasping the first-aid kit. He’s half-way through undressing.

“I didn’t wake up until after eight, and Miles said you’d already been gone an hour,” she states, setting out her tools.

He dries his hair off, “yeah, the guy needed an extra set’a hands patchin’ up some storm damage—”

She’s calm, measured, hey before shooting him with electrodes, “for all we knew he’d taken you in for questioning,”

“After leavin’ a gift basket?” He smiles, touched. It doesn’t last long, though. She calls him over softly, and he sits beside her.

“We don’t know how these people work yet, James,” she takes his hand and presses the iodine soaked cotton into one of the deeper cuts. He hisses. “I got flowers, and a big house, and anything I could possibly want, only to find out I wasn’t allowed to leave,”

“This a’int—” she pushes into another cut.

“Did you ever see Silence of the Lambs?,” he nods, strained, “how did the guy get the girl into his van?” She soaks a new cotton ball in the solution and swipes it over the abrasion on his wrist, “he acted weak, needy, then trapped her and—”

“I got half a foot on the guy,” she starts dressing the wounds, obviously unconvinced, “y’had nothin’ to worry about,”

“But I did. It can’t be long before they find out the names we gave them are bullshit. What’s the plan then?”

It’s a minute before he speaks. She’s right. She’s always right. They could’ve been back in the states now, back in Jasper because that’s where Locke would look. He’s lived off the grid for a good portion of his life, it’d be easy to slip back into, easier to sustain in a group. Would be easier to assimilate to life in the seventies somewhere they have TVs and newspapers, would be easier to teach Jin english with some books or tapes. But that ship (sub) has sailed.

“We could tell the truth,”

She’s soaking another piece of cotton, the yellow seeping through to the other side before she finds it sufficient, “after we’ve spent the last five days lying to them?”

“Don’t have to be exact, just—we thought they were Others, that’s why we lied. Gives ’s a common enemy,”

She manipulates his middle finger, watching the wound open as she does, “you probably should’ve gone to the infirmary for this. How—”

“Was there, branch went through the roof, must’a got caught on a shingle while I was up there. Didn’t even feel it ’til I got back,”

“You’re gonna n—”

“My mom wasn’t a doctor—” he interjects, before she can protest “—not a nurse either ’n I can’t count the number of times she stitched me up, pops too,”

She smiles at the consideration, however unnecessary. “Do you want to keep interrupting me, or can I go fetch some ice?”


	6. (7: morning) leverage

They should’ve insisted on a Jeep. The van is fine, and really more practical; more space for their lost crew members, shelter from the sudden rains, fewer instances of peeling sunburns that will no doubt become a problem if they’re stuck here another thirty years; but when it comes to searching higher ground, they’re screwed.

Before the storm came through, they’d been able to comb through the jungle around their beach. The caves were untouched. The hatch didn’t even exist, they only way they knew they’d made it there was the jeep-sized trail back to the tree line and a few surveyors’ flags poked into the undergroth. The beach itself… there’s nothing. No one’s replaced their little blue tarp and plane-part town. No Gilligan’s Island-type bamboo and thatch houses. Not even a single shit out of the kid’s dog. Pristine.

The higher ground hadn’t really been a priority, but after Horace comes by during the storm (My station [The Arrow] might as well be flooded […] the more hands we have over here, the better when it gets like this.), the lowlands might not abe their best bet anymore.

No one thinks to offer them the more resilient Jeep.

They get bogged five minutes out of the fence, and at 9:03 am, James is about ready to call it a day. It’s already 90º, steam is rising out of the grass, and they just happened to land in a time before the T2 went four-wheel-drive.

Juliet calls James from just inside the tree line.

“Bring the saw!”

He doesn’t bother to shout for an explanation. Just pulls out the toolbox from next to Daniel and heads off into the jungle for God knows why.

She’s pulling—trying to pull a low, broken branch off of a tree.

He doesn’t say a word, but the lok on his face must make his questions plain as day.

“For the van.”

She might as well have jost told him he’s been breaking rocks to make a runway for aliens.

“To get it out of the mud?” She pulls down again and the wood cracks, but not enough. “Strap the branch onto the back wheel, drive it out?“

He shakes his head, and moves to try the branch himself. “Never did much off-roadin’ ‘roud the swamps.” He pulls himself up on the branch and soon the crack-snaps grow to crescendo, finally falling away from the trunk.


	7. (-846: night) meet-cute

Smoke. A haze of it, puffed from skinny brown cigarettes and expertly rolled joints, hangs just overhead; collecting in the centre of the living room of the small condo, despite the windows being thrown open long ago.

It’s warm: summer—

(“you’re from miami, right?”

she startles, so lost in her own thoughts, the ebb and flow of the inlet; nods softly and turns to face him.

“for the most part, yeah.”)

—Summer in Miami.

The air is viscous, not even the sea breeze offers any relief. The smoke, the air, the whole party is oppressive, too much; too many people, too loud music, too much sickly sweet punch spilled on the carpet. All that can seem to cut through it is screwdriver-ice he crushes between his molars. He set himself by the window not long after he arrived, the bright street lights and occasional screech of tyres keep the drowsiness of his five-am wake up at bay. He’s lived in the building, next door, a month and change, knows the host well enough that he’s sure the party won’t die down until the early hours of the morning, so he might as well stay.

* * *

The way he remembers it is this:

She cuts through the crowd, fifteen people, like Moses. Blonde hair and a swishy white dress and that smile; some kind of minty cocktail in one hand, a small plate of hors d'oeuvres in the other.

“Hey.”

She sits herself down beside him on the windowsill, pulls a coaster out of the nook of the side table before setting her drink, mojito, on it.

“I’m Juliet.”

He crushes the ice he’s sucking on in haste and dries the condensation off his hands.

“James—” he extends his hand, “—Jim, Jim’s fine,” looks her in the eyes like his uncle taught him and—

They spark.

She snaps her hand away, flicking her wrist back and forth. She laughs and in the lull between tracks it seems to echo.

“James it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank


End file.
